Only the Lonely
by Barcardivodka
Summary: Chapter 5: Hurt while on a mission, Napoleon is forced to recuperate in the care of Illya's elderly neighbours..
1. Only the Lonely

A/N As always, with grateful thanks to my beta Jay. I have since mess around with the story and as such, all mistakes and spelling errors are mine, and mine alone. So please do not steal them.

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After Istanbul there was Rio de Janeiro, then Copenhagen, then Madrid, the jungles of Argentina and wherever else they were needed. But in between missions there was always London.

The British capital was the current U.N.C.L.E headquarters, although there had been rumours that the fledgling agency would relocate to New York at some point in the future. For now, however, home was London. U.N.C.L.E was well funded and Waverly had ensured his field teams were well looked after, and that included accommodation. Somewhere of their own, a place where they could shut out the world while they unwound from a mission.

Solo had taken full advantage of the offer and set himself up in an apartment in St James, a well-heeled part of London. His neighbours beautiful, rich and unsuspecting.

Gaby had chosen Chelsea, taking a far more modest flat. The area was full of music, fashion and clubs, a far cry from the quiet, dark, derelict streets of East Germany.

Illya had been happy with the small room that had been initially assigned to him at headquarters. Waverly, however, had politely, but firmly insisted that he should find more suitable and more spacious living quarters. Illya had grown frustrated with the search for somewhere to live, Solo and Gaby had tried to help, but he had been unable to articulate his discomfort at living amongst such decadent excess.

It was Waverly who came to his rescue, dangling a set of keys in front of him one day and rattling off an address. _"Think you may find this suitable accommodation, Mr Kuryakin."_

Illya had spent a few days just checking out the neighbourhood. It was in Whitechapel, one of the poorest parts of the city and the place that spawned the first serial killer. Although predominantly white, it wasn't predominately English. Besides for a few Jamaicans, and the Indian family that ran the local corner shop, virtually everyone else was either Irish or from the Soviet Union; Polish, Hungarians, Ukrainians and even some fellow Russians. Illya had often wondered what they would think if they knew they had a KGB agent living amongst them.

His flat was located in a featureless five storey red brick building that overlooked a small park. The flat itself was reasonably small by London standards, a bedroom, a living area, kitchen and bathroom, but Illya was used to living in barracks. His home in Russia was merely a single room on the second floor of the KGB training centre, consisting of nothing more than a single bed, a wardrobe and a desk. Illya had stood in the living room of his new accommodation and marvelled at the amount of light and space around him.

It had not been his intention to get to know his neighbours. As a spy it was always better to stay as anonymous as possible. There was also the fact that Illya didn't know how to socialise. He'd been extensively trained in undercover techniques, but was only able to maintain such pretence for only a few weeks and only during missions. When he was allowed free time Illya just wanted to be himself, a simple man with solitary habits. He'd also become accustomed over the years to being viewed as an oddity. His height alone set him apart. His frame was packed with lean muscle, his strength and speed were considered almost unnatural by some of his KGB colleagues. Their superstitious fears adding another obstacle to try and breach. It had served him well to keep his own company. His new neighbours, however, seemed to view him very differently.

Illya knew that, not only was he the youngest resident by several decades, he was also the only male. There was the occasional male visitor, a son, grandson, or a friend, but none that stayed for more than a few days at the very most. He had often wonder why Waverly would recommend a place that was populated by some of society's more vulnerable citizens. Perhaps a spy as a neighbour was not a good idea.

It all started with Mrs Ruth Rosen in 2B. Illya had found himself forcibly locked out of the electronics and surveillance lab at headquarters. After a tumultuous and turbulent exchange with the lab's head scientist, Illya was personally kicked out of the building by Waverly himself with a firm and threatening warning, by the Englishman's standards, not to return until mid-morning the following day at the earliest.

Illya had returned to his flat in a furious mood, caring little that Waverly's actions were motivated by concern over Illya's well-being and the fact that he hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours. As he stomped up the stairs he had passed Mrs Rosen on the first floor landing. She'd been leaning heavy on her walking stick with her shopping bags strewn around her. He was almost to the second floor when he'd paused, and turned back to look at the elderly woman. He'd retraced his steps.

"Is elevator not working?" he'd asked gruffly.

"Thought I could do with the exercise," she'd replied, still somewhat out of breath. Her German accent thicker than usual.

Illya had opened his mouth to snap out that she should take better care of herself when he'd noted her smile.

"You make joke?"

Her smile had widened. "A bad one," she conceded.

Illya had picked up her bags, holding them easily in one hand. He bent his other arm and offered her his elbow. She slid her arm through his and her bony, weathered hand grasped his forearm. They had slowly made their way up the rest of the stairs to Mrs Rosen's second floor flat. Illya carried her shopping in and placed it on her dining table and turned to leave.

"Thank you Mr… Kuryakin, isn't it?"

Illya had just nodded.

"I'll have to telephone Mr Watson, the landlord," she'd continued as she started to pull items from her shopping bags. "It took him nearly a week to get it fixed last time. Would you like some tea?"

"No. Thank you." Illya had replied. "I will fix elevator. No need to phone landlord."

"But that's not for you to do," Mrs Rosen had turned to face him, a bag of flour clutched in her hand. "That's for Mr Watson to arrange. A handsome, young man like you must have far better things to do with his time." She'd turned back to the table and missed Illya's blush.

"I don't mind. I … I'm not required at work until tomorrow. I am good with machinery," he reassured.

Mrs Rosen had nodded. "You're Russian, aren't you?" At that question Illya had tensed, knowing that this pleasant little exchange was about to end. Illy knew everything there was to know about his neighbours. He knew the Mrs Rosen had been born in Munich and was a Jew. That her own government had turned on her and sent her and her family to the concentration camps. Only Mrs Rosen had survived. Her husband, three sons, two daughters, and six grandchildren had perished. Murdered by the will of a mad man. Her only family was a sister who had managed to flee. But her route out of Germany took her East instead of West and she now lived with her husband and children in Berlin … behind the wall. A family never to be reunited. Illya nodded his head in answer to Mrs Rosen's question and waited for the stinging rebuke. "Then I'll make you some Beef Stroganoff as a thank you. I think I have all the ingredients." She'd moved into her kitchen, opening cupboard doors as she checked their content.

Illya, to say the least, had been flummoxed by the reply. He could speak several languages flawlessly, but he'd struggled with learning English and especially the accent, mastering neither an American nor an English one. So he showed his nationality every time he spoke the language. In the West, Russian meant Communist and Illya was usually subjected to others hostile opinions of his country. As he'd only ever been to the West during a mission, he'd had to take the abuse when all he'd wanted to do was rip the insolent Capitalist apart.

Illya had spent the next two hours fixing the elevator. It only required some simple maintenance to get it back up and running again. He'd also taken the opportunity to place some surveillance devices and a couple of canisters of knock-out gas into the elevator's roof … just in case.

Four hours later he'd had his cheeks pinched and kissed several times and his hair ruffled once, as the matrons of the building thanked him for his mechanical skills. He had also been gifted with a bewildering array of food, encompassing all the different cultures that made up his fellow tenants.

It also started a precedent. If anything needed fixing, Illya was the first port of call, regardless if it was a radio, a light fitting, a dripping tap, putting up shelves, or the one almost death-defying repair of a television aerial on the roof. In return Illya was kept well fed and for the first time, in a very long time, he was looked upon with the affection and protectiveness that only the elderly can bestow on those so much younger.

TMFU TMFU

Illya let out a huff of laughter as he wearily entered his flat and quietly closed the door behind him. It amused him that his thoughts had drifted back to the first few weeks of moving into his flat. Undoubtedly sparked by his ride in the elevator to the fifth floor as he was too tired and injured to walk up the stairs. He flicked on the lights as he walked into the living room, dropping his bag by the bedroom door as he passed by. The flat was cold and had the stale smell of being unoccupied for far too long.

He lowered himself carefully into the armchair that sat opposite a dusty, abandoned game of chess. With long fingers that trembled with exhaustion he pushed back his jacket and pulled the hem of his black turtleneck up until it revealed the bandage wrapped around his stomach, an inch or two above his hips. A thick pad of gauze protected a knife wound on his left side that he had received as their latest mission for U.N.C.L.E came to a climactic end. The pristine white over the wound was now spotted with blood.

The wound was deep but Illya knew from experience that it hadn't sliced into any internal organs, just flesh and muscle. He'd managed to stitch the torn flesh together and bandage the wound away from the prying eyes of Solo and Gaby. But he knew he hadn't deceived them. They would be knocking on his door soon, or if Solo was feeling particularly daring, picking the lock open and barging his way in. The thought made him smile. Nearly a year on from that first mission in Rome and Illya knew that he had changed, for the better. Away from the cruel hold of his KGB handlers he'd been better equipped to control his psychosis. Although it could still overwhelm him at times, Gaby and Solo were able to help diminish the effects, and were able to make sure he didn't lose himself completely to the red fury raging inside him.

Then there was his harem of elderly ladies, as Solo called them. Who clucked and fussed over him when he came home supporting bruises, or fell asleep from exhaustion on their sofas when he should have been mending their toasters or sewing machines. They never asked what he did for a living – the wisdom granted to them through their long hard fought lives gave them that answer. They treated him as they would treat their own flesh and blood and Illya would willingly give his life for any of those precious women who made him feel wanted and loved.

Solo had attempted to usurp him in their affections, it was a challenge the thief was just unable to resist. They treated him as a naughty, rambunctious child, much to Solo's horror. They scolded him with the use of his given name and slapped away thieving hands with gentle admonishments. Solo spoke of them with annoyance and disdain, but would lean down for an affectionate pat on the cheek and would buy them new toasters or radios when they were too worn out for even Illya to fix.

Gaby was the recipient of the women's wise words, invited to the table when tea was served. Solo and Illya outcasts on low-slung sofas, dainty tea cups held gingerly in hands far too large for such fine china, but their banishment eased with generously cut slabs of Victoria sponge and requests for seconds never refused.

Illya leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. They would be here soon, Solo and Gaby and Illya's harem. They would chase away the pain and exhaustion of the mission. He would succumb to his body's needs of a healing sleep surrounded by those he trusted to protect him, to keep him safe. He would fade into the arms of Morpheus to the sound of laughter and of Solo arguing with the other cooks of the group over spices and dishes. A blanket would be pulled over him and a small body would ease down beside him, fingers interlacing with his. A soft kiss to his cheek would hold the promise of a future that had been for so long, so very uncertain.

A lonely man no more.


	2. The Rage of Illya Kuryakin

**Ruth Rosen, one of Illya's elderly neighbours, witnesses first hand the terrible rage that resides within the trouble Russian**

This story is part of a series that starts with Only the Lonely. It can be read as a one-off (I hope), but the character set-up of Ruth Rosen is in the first story.

 _With huge thanks as always to Jay, my beta, who does a bloody brilliant job and then I come along and mess things up again. Any mistakes or spelling errors are mine and mine alone, so please do not steal them :)_

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Ruth Rosen had just registered the stinging pain of the slap across her cheek when a blur of movement rushed passed her with a roar of outrage. Through the haze of tears she watched in horror as her young upstairs neighbour, Illya Kuryakin, tackled the burglar she had unwittingly disturbed only movements before. In a quick ferocious move Illya had the thief in a deadly, unbreakable chokehold. Even with his left arm encased in a plaster cast from hand to elbow it didn't appear to be hindering Illya in the slightest. It was the gargled gasp of the intruder that shook Ruth from her state of shock.

"Illya, stop" she cried out, only to be ignored.

Illya had his back to her living room wall ensuring he had plenty of leverage to maintain the lethal hold. Ruth placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed with all the strength in her arthritic hand. She could feel the whipcord strength of his body, belied by the leanness of his frame.

"Illya, please," she begged. "Let him go."

She almost cried out in relief when he turned his head and looked at her. The murderous intent that marred his features changed to one of bewilderment.

"He hit you," he ground out through gritted teeth. "I will kill him."

"He's only a boy, Illya. The police will arrest you. You'll be hung," she pleaded.

"No police." He nodded his head towards her window which overlooked a small landscaped park. "I bury body beneath tree."

"I don't want you to kill him," she implored gently. She rubbed her hand across the back of his jumper clad shoulder in an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I beg you, Illya, please let him go."

A flash of indiscernible emotion crossed his features, but he relaxed his grip and pushed the boy away from him. Illya took her hand from his shoulder and slowly stood up, a look of regret in his eyes. Without another word he walked towards the young thief who tried to scramble away, but was firmly grasped by the collar of his leather jacket and hauled to his feet.

Illya marched him through the small flat and onto the landing. "If you ever raise hand to any woman again, you will wish I killed you today," he snarled quietly at the boy. "You understand?" The boy nodded his head vigorously and let out a frightened squeak as Illya pushed him towards the stairs. "Go." Illya commanded, and the boy fled.

Ruth watched as Illya walked back into her flat, his right hand rubbing at his chest. He stopped a few feet from her.

"I am sorry," his gaze shifted to the floor. "I did not mean to frighten you. I will go. I will ask Mr Waverly if I can return to … company house." He turned to leave, but Ruth stumbled forward and grabbed the fingers of his left hand.

"Illya, what nonsense is this?" She asked in confusion. "Why would you give up the home you have made here, in this building? With us?"

"But … this is not what you wish? For me to go? You are scared of me, yes? I… leave, it is best." The look on the young man's face almost broke Ruth's heart. He looked so lost and shame shone from his eyes. She had no idea why.

She let go of his fingers and reached up to pull his right hand from his chest. His hand engulfed hers.

"Illya, your actions did scare me," she confessed. She instinctively knew that she needed to say the right words and they had to also come from the heart, so Illya could see the truth in them. There would be no second chance to mend any misunderstanding. She felt his fingers twitch. "But _you_ don't frighten me." She reached up and gently lifted his chin so he had no choice but to look at her. "I like you a great deal, Illya, and if you were to leave, the others and I would miss you greatly." Ruth knew that Napoleon, the young rascal, had collectively named the women who lived in the building as 'Illya's harem'. Illya being the only male who lived in the building and the average age of everyone else was seventy-four. But if Illya left, Ruth knew the building would never feel the same again.

It had taken some time to get to know their stoic Russian neighbour. But the brusque young man had proven to be a gentle soul and was quite the wizard at mending electrical equipment. Illya had slowly become used to their attentions, kissed cheeks, ruffled hair (when he was sat down), home cooked meals and hand knitted jumpers. He looked so much more handsome in one of Betty Hadland's lambswool jumpers than those ugly, threadbare turtlenecks he seemed to constantly wear.

With him came the brash, light-fingered American Napoleon, who hid his true emotions behind an easy charm and quick smile. His charade didn't last long. Two broken souls, whose walls were soon breeched by the undemanding acceptance and love of a group of elderly women. They themselves who had their own secrets and heartache and knew the signs of those fearful of revealing their true selves.

Then there was Gaby, a beautiful East German girl, who took no nonsense from the two males. A strong, independent woman, who had gained the trust and respect of her colleagues simply by being herself.

It was also very obvious that the three of them were government agents of some sort. An American, an East German and a Russian was either the start of a very bad joke, or a secret collaboration. Although they lived elsewhere in the city, Gaby and Napoleon were usually at Illya's flat, or more precisely, in one of the women's flats, depending on where Illya had been abducted to. They would disappear for weeks on end and at least one of them would come back with some injury. Like Illya. Who Ruth, by the explicit instructions of Napoleon was to keep a close eye on and ensure he did not over exert himself. A job Ruth had failed thanks to a young thief, barely an adult, who had decided to take others possessions instead of having the self-discipline and self-worth to find himself gainful employment to pay for his entertainments.

Ruth realised she had been silent too long when Illya attempted to pull his hand away from hers. She tightened her grip.

"Illya, you could have easily intimidated that boy, he was half your size …"

"He hit you!"

"I've had far worse done to me, Illya," Ruth stated with a hard tone.

"But…"

"But you were here to protect me," she interrupted gently. "What if you had killed him, Illya? Could Mr Waverly save you from the gallows? How do you think I would have felt? Knowing that you were hung because of me?"

Illya shook his head. "I have temper. I … it is hard to think when it … comes." He shook his head again, as if he might un-jumble the words that he need to explain. "Mr Waverly, he makes me see psychologist," he stumbled over the word, "but it is too hard … I have had temper since I was boy." He looked at her with such shame that Ruth felt tears gathering in her eyes. "It hurts to say why," he confessed in a whisper.

"Oh, Illya," Ruth hugged him as tears rolled down her cheeks. Illya stood stiffly for a moment before she felt his arms wrap round her and gently hug her back.

"It is okay," he comforted as he placed his head on top of hers. "Gaby and Cowboy, they know about temper. They help me. I am getting better."

Ruth broke the hug so that she could look at Illya. "I will help you too," she promised. "I will ask Gaby and Napoleon what to do, if that's all right?"

Illya gave one of his barely there smiles. "You already help. It is not many who can make me stop with just words. I wish I wasn't like this," his smiled disappeared and he frowned, "but …" He gave a self-deprecating shrug in lieu of further words. His right hand started to rub at his chest again.

"You've hurt your chest again, haven't you?" Ruth asked. "And where's your sling?"

"Arm is better. Nearly healed."

"Illya, you broke it last week. Even Russian bones don't heal that fast." She let out a huff of exasperation. "Go and sit down. I'll make some tea." She went to take a step towards the kitchen, but turned back to look at him. "Perhaps I should phone Gaby, tell her what happened. You might need your arm x-rayed again."

Illya bent and kissed the top of her head. Ruth reached up and gently patted his cheek. "I am fine. Truly. I will sit. I will drink tea with you. Perhaps eat cake too?" He added with a hopeful look.

Ruth smiled. "I think I have some of Lobelia's cake left. You can read me another chapter of Moby Dick."

Illya nodded his agreement and walked towards the sofa, picking up the paperback from the coffee table as he sat down.

As she prepared the tea and cake, Ruth decided that it was time to share with Illya her time in the concentration camps during the war. Her family slowly tortured and murdered in front of her, merely for being a Jew. She'd never spoken of her experiences, but perhaps she and Illya could help heal each other. An old woman, still haunted by the guilt of surviving and a young man, so terribly broken somewhere in his past, that it was still too painful to deal with.


	3. Call me Ishmael

_Call me Ish … mael. Some years ago— never mind how long … pre …cisely— having little or no money in … my purse, and nothing … particular to … interest me on shore, I thought … I would sail about a little and see the … watery part … of the world. It … is a … way I have of driving off the sp … leen and reg …u …lating the cir …cu …lation. Whenever I find myself growing grim … about the mouth; whenever it is … a damp, drizzly … November in my soul; whenever I find myself in … vol … untarily pausing before coffin warehouses …_

Betty Hadland looked up from her knitting when Illya fell silent. Her young Russian neighbour had only just picked up her copy of Moby Dick, reading it aloud in an exercise she had set to improve his English. The words had been spoken falteringly and slowly. A look of frustration marred Illya's features. Betty was just about to reassure him when the book was slapped onto the table with such force that it rattled Betty's teacup in its saucer.

"Is too hard," he growled out as he stood up and stomped past the coffee table. Betty thought he was going to storm out of her flat, but he turned back round when he reached the living room door and paced back to the coffee table, his eyes flicking to the book, only to turn and pace back to the door.

With one eye on the agitated man, Betty calmly finished off the row of knitting and then placed the needles into the yarn of wool nestled at her side.

"Illya, come and sit down," she patted the arm of the sofa as she smiled encouragingly.

"No." he replied as he came to a stop a foot or so away from her armchair. "Is no good. I am too stupid to learn. Is too hard." He turned and continued his pacing, the palm of his right hand rubbing his forehead in agitation.

"Illya, please come and sit down. You're starting to make me feel quite dizzy." Betty was eighty-six years old and for fifty of those years she had been a teacher. She had taught the bright and the troubled with equal dedication. She had learned long ago that not all children were gifted academically. Some were more practically inclined. The trick was to find their talent before society and others broke their self-confidence. As hard as she had tried, Betty had lost countless of children to the drudgery of a life in service, or to factory assembly lines and the world had lost a wealth of potential, simply because a child didn't like to read the classics, or grasp the idea of multiplying fractions.

However, Illya, no matter what he thought of himself, was far from stupid. This was a man who spoke at least four languages fluently - they were just the ones Betty had overheard him speak. He could fix anything electrical and from what Napoleon and Gaby had let slip, Illya was considered a communications expert in the 'firm' that they worked at. So it stood to reason that he was well versed in modern technology.

Illya returned to stand by the coffee table after a few more circuits of her small living room and glared down at her. Betty raised an eyebrow as she looked up at him, intimidated by neither his glare or looming height. With a weary sigh Illya capitulated and moved to sit stiffly on the sofa.

"Is no good," he muttered quietly.

"I'll be the judge of that," Betty replied, "not you. You asked for my help Illya, to improve your English. I can and I will help you speak more fluently. However, you have to give both of us more than five minutes into our first lesson before you declare the whole endeavour a disaster."

With his head bowed, Illya looked at her from under his lashes, his expression a picture of unhappiness.

"Pass me my writing pad and pen, please." Betty pointed to the furthest end of the coffee table. Illya easily reached for them and then held out the items to her. "No, they're for you. I want you to write out the first paragraph in the book." Illya shoulders slumped at that, but he obediently uncapped the fountain pen and flipped over to a new page in the writing pad. When he opened the book and held it open in one large hand on the coffee table, Betty added, "in Russian."

He gave her a bewildered look.

"In Russian," Betty repeated with a sharp tap on the coffee table. Illya hunched himself over the table to complete the task. Once Illya had finished, Betty asked him to write it again, in German, then in French and again in Polish.

Those were the languages Betty had heard him speak with fluid confidence, she'd also just confirmed that he could write fluently in all four languages as well. Although, out of those languages Betty only spoke French, so Illya could have written complete nonsense in the others. But she knew he hadn't. It would have served his self-critical cause better if he had denied being able to read and write in any of the tasked languages.

When he had finished, Illya looked at her for a moment, before picking up the writing pad and offering it to her. Betty took it with a reassuring smile and flipped through the pages. Illya's handwriting was neat and tidy and clearly legible. There were no smudges or blotches from using the fountain pen and each line was almost perfectly straight. She looked over at Illya who was watching at her rather worriedly.

"This is very good, Illya," she praised. "Your handwriting is extremely neat." Illya blushed at her words. She would have found it endearing, but it pulled at her heart that Illya would be embarrassed at such simple approval. She placed the writing pad on the coffee table.

"Illya, your spoken English is good enough for you to clearly be understood. With daily practice you will only improve."

"I speak English every day, for months," Illya protested. "Still the same."

"That's because it's become a habit to speak in the manner that you do. Reading aloud in English, be it from a book or a newspaper, will help you to form sentences correctly." Illya nodded at her words as he picked up the book and looked down at it, turning it over and over in his hands. "With your level of intelligence, it won't take very long to speak more fluently at all." She smiled as his head shot up to stare at her in astonishment.

"But…"

"Illya, you translated a paragraph of English text into four different languages, in minutes. You obviously have a very thorough knowledge of English, as well as the other languages. It's all down to pronunciation and sentence structure now. "

"Oh."

"I want you to read aloud for at least one hour every day. Write down any words you have difficulty with, either with pronunciation or context and we'll go through them when you have the time to pop in. How does that sound?"

Illya nodded. "Is quiet at work. I could come read to you in evenings?" He asked almost shyly.

"It's quiet at work. I could come and read to you in the evenings?" Betty emphasised the missing words.

"It's quiet at work. I could come and read to you in the evenings?" Illya repeated dutifully. He smiled as Betty patted his hand.

"That sounds like a very good idea. You can join me for dinner. I do so dislike eating alone," Betty added quickly as Illya started to protest.

"Ok. But I bring … but I will bring the groceries." Betty nodded her agreement. She had already won a reasonably easy victory, there was no point pushing it any further.

"Let's try a couple of pages," Betty waggled a finger at the book. "Then we'll have some more tea."

Illya opened the book, took a breath and started to read.

" _Call me Ishmael."_


	4. Friends and Foes

As always, with grateful thanks to Jay, who does sterling work to make my stories readable. Any mistakes, spelling errors or plot holes are mine and mine alone - so please do not steal them!

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Ruth Rosen let herself into 5B and pushed the door closed behind her with her walking stick. She walked into the small kitchen and placed her bag on the table with a sigh of relief. Rummaging inside she pulled out a large dish containing a hearty stew cooked by Lobelia and placed it in the fridge. A pint of milk followed along with a slab of butter. A loaf of bread, a jar of homemade strawberry jam and a container of tea were left on the table.

She had baked and iced a chocolate cake, which she would bring up later, once she knew Illya had returned home. It made the perfect excuse to call in and make sure he was safe and well. The young man seemed to have developed quite the habit of getting himself into trouble which resulted in an alarming amount of bruises and broken fingers. Sometimes his injuries were far worse. Although he would shrug off such concerns, Ruth couldn't stop herself from worrying.

Satisfied that everything was in order in the kitchen, Ruth moved into the living room and pulled back the curtains that covered the flat's large windows, flooding the room with afternoon sunshine, dust motes danced and shimmered in the light.

Although the room was relatively small, it appeared much larger than her own living room; due mainly to Illya's being virtually bare and what furniture there was, looked as though it had seen better days. As if Illya had bought furniture that would hold no attachment, in case he suddenly left. Ruth briefly wondered how many other rooms, or apartments Illya had temporarily called home, never or unable to return. Illya's apartment contained an armchair, a couch and a coffee table with its ever present chessboard set-up ready for a game. The only other item in the room was a large, tall bookcase. Ruth and the other residents of the block of flats had watched the six shelf unit slowly fill up. Technical manuals mingled with autobiographies, but the majority of the now overflowing bookcase were fiction. All kinds of genres, classics with the recently published, books in English and a myriad of other languages. If there was any weakness that could be assigned to Illya Kuryakin it was his love of the written word.

Happy that everything was in order for Illya's return later in the day, and that he would have enough food to see him through for a couple of meals, Ruth turned to leave. A groan suddenly filled the air. She paused, wondering if she had misheard. But the low groan came again. Moving as silently as she was able Ruth made her way to the bedroom and gently eased the door open.

In the dim light she could she make out the tall figure of Illya in the middle of his bed. He was bare-chested, a sheet tangled around his hips and legs. His hands gripped the bedding as another groan escaped from him. Thinking of nothing other than to comfort the young man she was coming to regard as a son, she flipped on the light switch, flooding the room with harsh light as she moved towards the bed.

"Illya," she gently called, reaching out to him. Ruth's hand was on his forearm for only long enough to register the heat that was radiating from him when she was suddenly flipped onto the bed, a large hand pressing her down into the mattress. She watched in horror as Illya raised up his other arm, his hand clenched into a fist.

Ruth brought both hands up to wrap around the hand that pinned her to the bed. "Illya, it's Ruth!" she gasped out in terror. She squeezed her eyes closed as the fist descended. Ruth knew the punch would do her great harm. Her age had made her frail. Illya was young and strong, his lean frame packed with muscle, she would be lucky if it only broke her cheek or her jaw, and that was only if Illya stopped with one blow. Her heart clenched at the damage it would do to Illya when he returned to his senses, when he realised that he had struck her. "Illya, please. It's Ruth!" She cried out in desperation.

"Ruth?" His voice sounded weak and uncertain.

She opened her eyes and stared into the puzzled face of Illya. The pressure from the hand that pinned her to the bed eased, but the fist hung suspended in the air, still aimed at her head. She slowly raised her arms and cupped her hands around Illya's face. "Yes," she sobbed in relief. "Yes, it's me, Illya." She frowned as her hands became slick with sweat.

Ruth watched as Illya's face morphed into a mask of abject horror and he pushed himself away from her. He scrambled off the bed and disappeared from her view. She pushed herself upright and frowned as her left hand encountered something wet. She looked in shock at the blood that covered it. She twisted as best she could to try and see behind her – part of the white bedsheet was covered in blood. Ruth slid from the bed and cautiously approached Illya who sat leaning against the bedroom wall, knees to his chest and his arms wrapped round them. Ruth could see no obvious signs of blood on his pyjama bottoms or the parts of his torso she could see. She knelt stiffly in front of him and reached out to touch his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Illya flinched away from her.

"No!" He cried out hoarsely. He tried to curl in on himself even more. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He repeated as he lowered his gaze from her.

Undeterred Ruth gently grasped his shoulder, her hand sliding in sweat and the burning heat emanating from him. "Illya, it's alright," she soothed.

"No, not alright." Illya raised his head to look at her. Ruth almost cried out at the pain and anguish that marred his features. "I attacked you. I hurt you. I could have killed you!" The last few words end in a choked sob and unshed tears shone in his eyes.

"But you didn't hurt me, Illya." Ruth countered. "You stopped. I woke you up and you just reacted. I should have…"

"No." Illya covered her hand that was still gently stroking his shoulder. "Not your fault. My fault. I am … dangerous. I…I shouldn't be here, in flat. I should, I should be …kept in cage."

"Now that's enough of that nonsense, Illya Kuryakin." Ruth stated firmly, she smiled as he looked up at her in shock. "You are obviously very ill. You're burning with fever and there is blood on your sheets. You're hurt. I woke you from a nightmare. I should have taken more care. Neither of us are to blame." She stood up, using Illya to brace herself, his hands coming up to steady her.

She watched as he pushed himself up from the floor and towered over her, before suddenly swaying alarmingly. What little colour he had drained from his face, his breathing becoming ragged.

"Illya, sit back down," Ruth ordered in alarm. She would never be able to hold him up or even provide enough support to get him back to the bed. Illya ungracefully lowered himself to the floor, his knees raised once again, but this time he lowered his head between them, long arms wrapping around his legs. Ruth moved to lean over him so that she could rub his back as he tried to gain control of his breathing when she saw the reason for the blood on the sheets. There was a long jagged wound on his left side. It appeared to start just above his hip and stop in the middle of his back, only a couple of inches from his spine. The uneven flesh had been roughly stitched together, but the stitches were irregular and at odd angles. Some had broken altogether allowing the wound to bleed. It was also inflamed with infection.

"I won't be a moment, Illya." Ruth said as she squeezed his shoulder for a moment before making her way to the bathroom. She folded a towel and dampened one side. A search through a bathroom cabinet produced a bandage. She retrieved her fallen walking stick as she made her way back to Illya. Moving to his left side and using her stick to balance herself she leaned down and placed the towel over the wound, causing Illya to flinch.

She unwound the bandage and then realised that she would have trouble wrapping it around his torso. Illya sat up, moving his left arm to hold the towel against his back. Wordlessly Ruth pushed one end of the bandage under Illya's hand and passed it along his back for Illya to grab it with his right hand and bring it round his stomach and back to Ruth. They repeated the procedure until the entire bandage had been used. Ruth secured it with a safety pin.

"Thank you," Illya muttered as he lowered his head between his knees again, his face ashen.

Ruth suddenly found herself at a loss to what to do. Her inclination was to call for an ambulance, Illya certainly needed medical care. But she knew that any suggestion to do so would be rejected by the young Russian. She had heard many an argument between Illya, Napoleon and Gaby on the subject. From what she had managed to glean from the heated conversations Illya had a strong distrust of medical professionals, and Napoleon and Gaby were appalled that he felt the need to patch himself up. She wondered if that was what he had attempted to do this time, but with the wound in such an awkward position he'd been unable to tend to it properly. She had a vision of him in a dirty hotel room trying to stitch the wound up using his left hand and strategically placed mirrors. No wonder it had become infected.

"Illya, I'm going to call Gaby?" She hadn't meant to make it sound like a question, to give Illya an option to say no. She let out a sigh of relief when he nodded his head in agreement. Ruth stroked a hand through his sweat dampened hair. "I'll just be in the next room," She felt compelled to say as she made her way out of the bedroom.

Trouble shooters. That's what Napoleon had called the three of them. Tasked with sorting out problems in far flung subsidiaries of British Oil, the company that they supposedly worked for. It was to explain the bruises, broken bones and other wounds the three of them often came back with after one of their long absences. Napoleon and Illya seemed to carry the most physical injuries, but Gaby would sometimes come back with a haunted look in her eyes that took a long time to fade, which worried Ruth more.

The residents of the flats had become surrogate minders over the months and years. Gaby would be invited for afternoon tea and surrounded by the support and wisdom of women who had lived through and survived their own horrors. Illya and Napoleon would be entrusted into their care when a watchful eye was required to ensure that they allowed their injuries to heal. It would often amaze Ruth that two young men would obey the commands of old women. Meekly accepting a scolding when they tried to do too much too soon, contently sitting on couches, large hands put to good use by the knitters of the group as hanks of yarn were twisted into more manageable balls. Oh, they would snipe and grumble, but Ruth knew it was all for show. Two young men, one American, one Russian, so very different in personality, but both starved of genuine love and affection. Who probably couldn't comprehend themselves why they felt safe enough to show the pain they were in and succumb to their body's demands and fall asleep in the presence of a caring, fussing old lady.

Ruth found Illya's telephone balanced on top of a pile of books sat next to his bookshelf. She dialled a number that she had committed to memory from regular use.

TMFU

Ruth had just put the kettle on to boil for a pot of tea when there was a loud knock at the door. It had been four days since she'd discovered Illya so desperately ill in his flat. Gaby had arrived within half an hour of speaking to Ruth on the telephone and had immediately called for a doctor despite Illya's protests. Napoleon had arrived just after the doctor and escorted Ruth home with a promise that he would keep her informed of Illya's condition, which he had kept. But he had gently refused her requests to be allowed to see Illya. There had been an uneasiness about him when he told her Illya wasn't feeling up to visitors and it had set off a sense of foreboding within Ruth.

She gasped in delight as she opened the door to find Illya on the other side.

"Illya! Come in. Oh, I've been so worried about you." In her joy she missed Illya hesitate before he stepped over the threshold and slowly close the door behind him. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?" She moved towards her kitchen, needing to do something otherwise she would hug the dear life out of the young man.

"No, thank you."

She turned at the unexpected refusal. Illya stood only a few steps away from her door his gaze lowered, his face pale.

"Illya?"

"I... I can't stay for long. I…Gaby said I had..." He took a deep breath and took a step towards her, holding her gaze for a moment. "I came to tell you that I am leaving."

"Leaving?" Ruth queried in puzzlement. "Are you going back to Russia?"

"No. I am…" he took another deep breath. "I am moving out of flat. Is too dangerous for me to stay. I am too dangerous."

"You're leaving us? But why?" She implored.

Illya took another step and reached out as if to touch her, but jerked his hand back. He put his arms behind his back as if he was at parade rest. "I hurt you and I do not wish to do so again. It is best I leave."

"Oh, Illya. You didn't hurt me." Ruth had no compunction about touching him as she reached up to gently touch his cheek. Her eyes filled with tears as he looked down at with such anguish. "You…you frightened me, yes. But you didn't hurt me. You would never hurt me."

Illya shook his head. "You cannot know this. I was ready to strike. I could have killed you!" He brought his arms around from behind his back and gently held her shoulders. "I can't take chance that I would lose control again," he confessed sadly.

"No." Ruth replied firmly. She took his left hand off her shoulder and held it in both of hers. His right hand dropped to his side. "You did not hit me, Illya. Despite your injury, the pain you were in, the fever you were running, you knew not to strike. You knew I was no threat. You knew it was me."

"Ruth, you …"

"I'm still talking, Illya." He blinked at her in surprise. "But you are hurting me now. You are going to break my heart if you leave. Betty, Yvonne, Lobelia, all of us, you will hurt us beyond measure if you leave." Ruth lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. She looked up at Illya's sharp intake of breath. He looked down at her with pain filled eyes. For a horrified moment she thought she had physically hurt him, before realising that he was in pain all the way to his soul. He very gently took her hands into his.

"Ruth, I am dangerous. Should not be near good people. I am monster." He held her gaze for a moment before lowering it in shame.

"Illya, you are no monster." Ruth replied firmly. "A dangerous man? Yes, you are. But you are only dangerous when you need to be. If you were a man without conscience you would not be so concerned over an old lady's feelings. Illya, I don't know what it is that you, Napoleon and Gaby do, but what I do know, is that it keeps us all safe."

Illya raised his head to look at her in puzzlement.

"I'm old, not stupid, Illya. A trouble shooter in the oil industry doesn't get into the amount of trouble the three of you seem to find on a regular basis." She smiled as he looked at her in astonishment. "Illya, I beg you, please don't leave. I have lost all those I have ever loved. I cannot bear the thought of losing you too, for something so silly." She moved closer to him and wrapped him in a hug, her cheek on his chest. She felt him stiffen in surprise before engulfing her as he hugged her back.

"I am sorry," he murmured a few moments later. "I do not want to leave. I like it here. I have not had home like this for many years. But, I…I thought I had…destroyed it with my actions. I didn't realise I would hurt you more if I left."

Ruth moved back slightly so that she could look up at him. "So you're going to stay?"

"I will stay. But we must discuss what happened, must not happen again."

Ruth smiled up at him. "I'll make that tea. You go and sit down. Should you be out of bed yet?"

Illya bent and kissed her forehead. "You sound like Gaby."

"I always knew Gaby was the brains between the three of you. You and Napoleon would get into far too much trouble without a firm hand to keep you in line." With one last hug Ruth let Illya go and turned towards the kitchen, looking back at Illya as he followed her.

"I will carry tray," he said.

"You will do no such thing. You're still far too pale. Go and sit down."

Illya took another step towards the kitchen.

"Sit!" Ruth commanded and pointed towards the couch.

Illya heaved out a heavy sigh. "Gaby, she will be like you when she grows old. Beautiful and bossy." But he turned towards the couch.

Ruth placed cups and saucers onto the tray as she re-boiled the kettle. She couldn't have allowed Illya to leave thinking he was a mindless danger to those around him. He was a good man, with a good heart. One day she might lose him to the hazards of his job. She was selfish enough to hope that she would never feel that pain, that old age would take her first.

As she filled the teapot and let it brew, she turned to look at Illya, his long legs were stretched out in front of him, his head thrown back against the back of the couch, the epitome of relaxed. She smiled.

She had won another battle against Illya's inner demons, but the war waged on. A war she and the other ladies of the block of flats were determined to win.

Their reward? A happy, healthy Illya, finally at peace with himself.

Was that really too much to ask for?


	5. Napoleon Solo's First Time

Lobelia Owino wasn't a woman to be trifled with. She had a custom of rapping knuckles – hard – with a wooden spoon, her speed and accuracy belying her advancing years. Napoleon was aware of this of course. He had encountered the wrong end of Lobelia's wooden spoon many times before. But he just couldn't seem to stop himself from trying to outfox her.

He rubbed at his sore knuckles after an unsuccessful attempt at stealing a cooling fairy cake. He glared unrepentantly into the face of the disapproving woman, quite certain that she truly did have eyes in the back of her head.

"Stop your thievery, Napoleon," she scolded, her Jamaican lilt softening her tone. She waggled the felonious spoon to emphasis her warning. "They still need to be iced. You can have one later. If you behaviour yourself."

With anyone other than this coven of old crones he found himself held hostage with, he would have turned on the smooth charm and easy smile. Charismatic words would have flowed from his silver-tongue to get what he wanted.

But these women, that Peril was so endeared with, easily saw through Napoleon's masks, they seem to have an innate ability to see through his deceitful and insincere words. It left him feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable.

He had the ability to make people see what he wanted them to see. To divert their attention as quick, light fingers took what they want. To put them so at ease that they inadvertently let secrets slip from between their lips. No one ever questioned the mask that he hid behind to achieve his objective, because they were completely unaware that he wore one. He had spent so long hiding his true self that even he didn't know who he was anymore. But these old women knew. They could see him so clearly that it was bordering on terrifying.

But they didn't turn him away, they didn't banish him. Just as they had with Peril, they took him into their hearts and their homes without any qualms, even knowing him to be a thief and a charmer. They put up with his antics, scolding him as if he were a naughty child, but then taking the sting from the rebuke with gestures of kindness. Like he was no more to them than an errant child.

Napoleon understood now why Peril had worn that bemused, almost haunted look for weeks after moving into the top floor flat.

"My ribs hurt," he stated, completely surprising himself. _Where the hell had that come from?_ It was a true statement, but Napoleon couldn't believe he had openly admitted to the fact without some measure of torture being applied. He looked at Lobelia in surprised horror.

"I know sweetie," Lobelia replied with a kind smile. "Why don't you go and sit on the sofa? It will be far more comfortable than that dinning chair." The ever present wooden spoon was now benignly employed in mixing together the icing for the two dozen fairy cakes that rested on cooling trays in front of him.

They were just out of easy reach and his aching ribs had slowed his usual swift movements. He glanced up at Lobelia. The mixing bowl was tucked into the crook of her left arm, the wooden spoon in her right hand, folding the mixture. He calculated the odds of being able to snatch a cake with the spoon otherwise engaged. Even if he failed yet again, he would at least have some icing to lick from his abused knuckles. He let out a defeated sigh as Lobelia moved the cooling trays further from his reach.

"Go and sit on the sofa," she chuckled.

"It hurts to move," Solo confessed quietly.

"And yet you still try and steal a cake?" She questioned.

"I'm hungry," he replied. He tried the puppy dog eyes look that always seemed to work for Peril. With all the cake he was fed Napoleon was surprised Peril hadn't doubled in size. All that rage he carried inside must burn off all the extra calories, Napoleon reasoned to himself.

He watched suspiciously as Lobelia put down the mixing bowl, the wooden spoon left safely within its confines.

"Come on," she urged as she moved to his side and gently placed a hand beneath his cashmere clad elbow. "It will only hurt for a moment and you'll be far more comfortable once you're settled. Then I'll get you some lunch and you can have a cake for afters," she bribed.

"Two cakes," Napoleon bargained as he pushed himself to his feet, failing to fully hide the grimace as his ribs flared red-hot with pain. Lobelia's firm grip on his elbow was a welcomed aid. He stiffly made his way to the haven of the sofa, Lobelia with him every step of the way.

She was strong for a woman in her seventies. Napoleon didn't know much about her, but Peril trusted her and all the women in the block of flats that he lived in with an unquestioning faith that he had previously only ever given to Napoleon and Gaby.

Napoleon knew Lobelia was from Jamaica. Her pride in her country could rival Peril's. Her flat was adorned with colourful trinkets and other reminders from her birthplace. He also knew that she had been uprooted from her beloved home by her sons who came to Britain in the early fifties. She was also a superb cook and Napoleon had joined her in her kitchen a time or two to learned authentic Jamaican recipes. Gaby and Peril had been eager taste testing guinea pigs.

This was, however, Napoleon's first time at being under the women's care. He'd been banished from HQ due to breaking several ribs in an alteration with a brute that liked to kill by bear hug. Thankfully Peril had shot dead the offensive giant before broken ribs were pushed into delicate internal organs.

After three days in hospital Napoleon had liberated himself, only to be quickly tracked down by the Russian bloodhound and unrepentantly delivered to a furious Waverly. It had ended rather badly for Napoleon. He was given an ultimatum; back to the hospital or surrender himself to the care of Peril's harem of old biddies. The old hags it seemed were held in high regard with Waverly, having fed Peril enough eye of newt or whatever it was that they brewed in their cauldron to make the Russian rest and tend to his injuries properly.

Only, it hadn't been that bad. In fact, it had been curiously comforting to be fussed over by so many grandmotherly figures. The discomfort he'd felt at them being able to see behind his obvious ruses and schemes to try and distance and protect himself from a world that hadn't altogether been very kind to him had slowly started to fade.

He was starting to understand why Peril was so obedient in the company of these women. They didn't care who or what you were. They had borne witness to Peril's terrible temper and had not judged him harshly.

They didn't seem to mind Napoleon stealing watches and bracelets from their wrists, only to return them with a flourish worthy of any showman. Rather disconcertingly the women seemed to view such a skill as nothing more than a magic trick, their faces lighting up with pleasure and praising him for his cleverness. It was the same skill that had planted bugs on the unsuspecting, removed vital information from pockets and swapped briefcases containing the means to unleash unimaginable horror.

But to these old women it was a Sunday afternoon's entertainment.

Napoleon lowered himself slowly onto the sofa, closing his eyes as he fought the sickening swell of pain that burned through him. A gentle hand brushed his unruly hair from his forehand; it had proven impossible to apply his usual hair product these last few days and to his chagrin his hair had reverted back to his natural curl.

"I'll get you one of your pain pills," Lobelia quietly said as she draped a blanket over his legs and carefully tucked it around him.

"No, I'll be alright in a moment," he gritted out.

"That doesn't work for Illya and it certainly isn't going to work for you. Your body can't heal if it's spending all it's time fighting pain." He opened his eyes and looked into a pair of concerned brown eyes.

"I'm okay," he croaked out hoarsely. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to reassure Lobelia, to remove the worry from her eyes. Worry for him. He really had no idea how to deal with it.

"You will be, sweetie," Lobelia replied. "You just rest and get I'll get you your medication and something to eat. Then after you've had a nap you can have three fairy cakes." She smiled, brushing a hand softly against his cheek.

Napoleon closed his eyes as Lobelia moved away and felt himself start to relax, the pain becoming more manageable.

He'd told Peril only yesterday that the old women were witches that had bewitched the Russian. Peril, rather surprisingly had just smiled and nodded in agreement. "Is good," he'd replied. "I like it. You will like it too," he'd added. Napoleon had scoffed at such an idea.

With the childhood and treatment he'd received at the hands of his government it had been no revelation that Peril, starved of love and affection, would have reacted to the women as he had.

But Peril was right; Napoleon was starting to enjoy the attention. There were no strings attached, the women wanted nothing from him. He was simply Napoleon, for all his faults.

They treated him as if … as if he were worthy of their time and affection.

It was going to take some time to get used to.


End file.
